


Drowning

by Original_Cypher



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College AU, Human!verse, M/M, fraternity!AU, mentions of others - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:44:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Original_Cypher/pseuds/Original_Cypher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale is the life of the party, billionaire heir, frat president and everybody shows up for his parties. He's also very drunk, and even more miserable. Somehow, there's only one person that really seems to see that. His frat brother, Stiles. And the way the golden eyed boy looks at him makes him feel so much worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning

Derek is pretty smashed. He watches blearily as the table he's leaning on topples over and feels a snort escape him once he's recovered his balance. Scratch that. He's _completely_ smashed. A few people give him alarmed glances, but he brings up his hands and grins. “Whoopsie.”

They laugh, and soon enough they're just sidestepping the debris. It's his place after all. They don't care.

He readjusts his grip on the neck of the bottle he's holding and takes a gulp. He doesn't miss his mouth, but it's a near thing. He hears a crash somewhere in the room and wonders what piece of furniture just met its unfortunate demise, but he's soon distracted by Leslie – Lizee? Betsy? - draping herself against his front. Damn, they really like to try, don't they? They don't really seem to register that Derek being openly gay means they don't stand a chance. Or maybe they like a challenge. Personally, he prefers challenges in which he has at least a couple of chances of success. But he's drunk, so he'll give her that.

“Come on, Derek. Show me your bedroom. I hear it's _huge_.”

Derek smirks at her. She doesn't sound like she's talking about his room. He wonders what her sources are. Not that he doesn't get around. Oh, boy, he does. The family fortune and the head Alpha status is getting him way laid. Get it? Waylaid? Anyway, he's been careful. Somehow, during the haze the past year has been, he's remembered his mom's lectures about being safe and has managed to keep unprotected sex to a minimum. Besides, in the shape he's in, it's half a miracle when he can even get it up. So mostly, nowadays, he exchanges rushed hand jobs or goes down on people. That's one last appetite he's lost. There's probably something telling in the fact that he's twenty five and already tired of everything existence has to offer. Turth is, he's taken a lot of what dearie existence has to offer. From now on, fuck you very much.

“Sorry honey. You don't have what it takes.” he slurs at the girl and tries not to bruise her as he has to forcibly unwraps her from him. He's a jackass, he knows that, but it only makes her pout. Really, it's making him queasy – and not just a little contemptuous – to think that the only reason she's here in the first place and hasn't slapped him yet is that he's Derek _Hale_. Your entire family dying in a plane fire slash crash doesn't make people care more about you. No, no, no. However, hearing of your inheritance of the bulk of Hale Industries _and_ the family fortune, does. God, he's so lucky Laura has a grip on it. He wouldn't know what to do with the company. – Hey, but he's heard the stocks have gone up since the initial crash due to the... well, crash. So, yay for big sis! – He drinks to that.

Here he is, though. Golden boy. Majoring in business, like daddy wanted him to. Oh, that was always Derek's plan as well, he'd never been one of those kids that didn't want to follow the family's footsteps. But he doubts he's going to graduate this year, given that he doesn't even know where his classes are held. He watches Scott yell something in Stiles' ear over the music at the other end of the room and make a hasty exit with his girlfriend. Alice? Anissa? Something. Stiles shakes his head after them, amused. Derek smirks. Scott has been stuck in the honeymoon phase with his girl since the moment they met. If Derek didn't find it so adorably disgusting – or disgustingly adorable – he'd be jealous. Their exits are legendary for being the absolute opposite of smooth. Derek is sure they haven't even made it out of the parking lot before taking their clothes off.

Stiles is watching him now, and something pangs in Derek's chest when their eyes meet. He _hates_ the way Stiles looks at him nowadays. The pity is a complete buzzkill and he can't stand to think about it. He glares at the boy and turns away. It takes longer to put him out of his mind than out of his sight. Stiles is the one not blood related person that manages to make it past Derek's barriers and make him _feel_. The thing is, when Derek feels, it's sorrow, depression, loss. And now, guilt. Guilt because of the way Stiles looks at him. Because of the way Laura looks at him. Because of the way Peter looks at him.

God. Peter. His uncle diagnosed with cancer months before the crash, stuck in a wheelchair by chemo and he'd yelled at Derek's face that he didn't know which of the two of them Laura would have to bury first.

Yeah. Derek is very much acquainted with shame and guilt.

He tries to wash down the bitterness and the tears with long gulps of tequila. It doesn't work. It makes him want to curl up in a corner and cry. Fucking Stilinski and his big caring eyes that just _know_. Concern. Why doesn't he manage to make Stiles give up on concern like the rest of them? Why does he have to-...

He doesn't know Stiles very well. They're frat brothers, yes, but there are nearly thirty of them. He was the one to rush Stilinski the pledge, though, so he remembers him being stubborn and witty and mostly good at taking abuse with humor. Not like Jackson, oh boy, not like Jacks. But while Jackson made a name for himself for the car, the girls, the money and the playboy attitude, Stiles made his on simply being awesome. Everybody loved him from the get go, even before he became a brother. And if Alpha Beta Omega parties are so famous, it's thanks to the organizational genius behind them. Stiles took over quickly, by simply offering to land a hand to the old organizers at first, and coming up with better themes, better deals on supplies, better music. Pretty fast, Derek, with the support of everyone, put him officially in charge of everything event related. Stiles and Derek knew each other. They spent time together on Alpha business and when they were cramming for exams only the two of them seemed to care about. But that was before. When Derek actually went to class. Mostly though, then and now, Stiles is too absorbed in his epic bromance with Scott and Isaac to have time for Derek's lack of conversation.

Nevertheless, as head honcho, Derek tips his hat at the Junior. Before Stiles, ABΩ was a house full of rich dudes hunted down by fortune 500 companies for their family names. Now, it's the place to be. And its president, Derek Hale, is known to be the life of the party. Now, more than ever. Not that Stiles approves of that.

When Derek lost... everything. When he lost everything, Stiles was... He was perfect. He didn't try to get him to talk about it. He didn't come up and say words of comfort that rang fake because they're the ones everybody always rehashes. He didn't bring him fucking casseroles when he couldn't even stomach the smell of food. But he took Derek for a Subway one morning after a sleepless night of him pretending not to be crying while singlemindedly destroying zombies on the xbox. He never pushed. He never waited for Derek to speak. He never treated him like porcelain. He did act different around him, but it didn't feel patronizing. Not agonizing. And one day, he had found Derek struggling with his bow tie for one more dedication ceremony, stepped into his room at the frat house and closed the door behind him. He ignored the tears making Derek's vision blurry and worked the bowtie quickly, flattening it gently. “You can do it.” He promised ever so softly, and Derek had the feeling Stiles knew from experience. Later, Jackson told him about Stiles' mom. When Derek gave him a watery smile, Stiles' face twitched and Derek found himself in a tight hug. The first one he felt like accepting. The first one that actually brought him comfort, instead of making him feel worse. “I'm sorry.” Stiles whispered in his neck, and for once, it rang true. So very true it hurt even more.

People boo in protest when the music cuts off. Derek already knows who is the cause of it – since the lights are still on, it's not a power outage, so that leaves one thing. The fun police. – He turns and levels a glare at Stiles and the Dj. “Party's over everybody.” Stiles calls, ignoring him. Well, when Derek was just starting to think fond stuff about the guy.

“Hey! Fuck you, Stilinski!” “What's this? An Alpha party?! Put the music back on.” People yell. Boyd looks hesitant under Derek's glower, but he's a reasonable guy, and even Derek knows Stiles is the voice of reason. People start to argue louder, but Stiles stands his ground. Derek knows it's a losing battle on the crowd's part. He's seen Stiles clear out parties at dawn before someone called the cops. Hell, he's seen him call the cops on his own frat house to make it stop. He's most famous though, for the time he pulled off a SWAT-like crowd control and used a fire hydrant on recalcitrant party goers that were becoming too aggressive. A couple of uncooperative drunks bark at Stiles that it's Derek's house and not ABΩ's, but Boyd smoothly sliding at his side makes them back off somewhat peacefully. As people start to file out reluctantly, Derek takes in the damage to the place. It's okay. It was his dad's great room, it's not like he's here to miss it. The plasma tv is on the floor. Oh, so _that_ 's where the crashing sound came from. Yikes. It's gonna be a bitch to clean up.

A group of people is converging towards the middle of the room instead of leaving. They're the seniors in the fraternity, some old friends from Derek's youth. People that actually came to Derek's house because they _know_ him. Or knew him, at least. Derek doesn't think anyone can claim to know him since the crash. Not even himself. Stiles eyes them assessingly before he glares at Derek again, helping Boyd pack up his gear. Derek is really starting to get rubbed the wrong way by all the hostility.

“That's it, mom? I don't even get dessert?” He calls – okay, fine, he _slurs_ – , catching everybody's attention.

Stiles glares at him. “If you wanted dessert, you shouldn't have skipped the whole meal and gone straight for the liquor cabinet.”

Ouch. Touché. Derek sways on his feet and tries to come up with a good comeback. When he can't seem to find one, he takes a swig instead. At least, the liquor cabinet doesn't desert him. Not like everybody else here.

Winston, who's got nothing on Boyd in terms of looking ginormous and is, just like Stiles' friend, a complete sweetheart – Derek knows, they've slept together a few times. From a guy like that, you'd expect some kind of animistic strength. Instead, he's gentle and extremely dedicated. His current girlfriend is a lucky lucky woman. – tries to plead for Stiles to keep the party going. He suggests going to a bar, keeping it small, just the lot of them. Lance and Kelly start voicing up in favor of this when Stiles gets righteous. Derek cringes in advance and opts out of joining the argument.

Stiles' speeches are usually awesome and horrible. Awesome because he nails it, every single time. But horrible because when they're directed at you... Well, it sucks to be you. Stiles starts snapping at them, visibly trying not to shout, and they quickly look chastised. Derek is coming back from the disappointment of finding his bottle empty when he realizes Stiles is talking about him. He assumed he was giving a lecture about the time – so what if the sun's coming up? – and being neighborly and everybody drunk driving on the way here, and back. But it's not what he hears.

“You say you're his _friends_! Then what the fuck are you doing here?! He's broken! _Look at him!_ ” Stiles is definitely yelling now, shoving his hand in Derek's direction. “He's a miserable wreck, a drunk, and what are you doing?! Huh?!” Stiles glares at Lance, challenging. “No, really? What are you doing?” he insists. “You know, besides taking advantage of his state and everything he's giving away because he doesn't even care about anything anymore! About whether he lives to see the next day!” Caroline tires to protest, weakly, but Stiles just points at the door, fed up and just _done_. “Go. _I_ 'll stay here and make sure he makes sure he actually _stops_.”

Derek watches, blearily, as his friends are too ashamed to even give him one last glance as they leave. Boyd puts a hand on Stiles' shoulder and they exchange a few words. Stiles says something that Derek doesn't catch, gives his friend a tired smile and shoos him off.

Derek doesn't fight it when his knees give out, he sits heavily on the floor. Way to heavily, and his spine screams in protest. Dammit. Well, good job, Stiles. Buzz effectively killed. Sucks to be Derek Hale.

After that, it's all a blank.

He wakes up feeling like someone is firing a missile in his head. And the sunlight that scorches his eyes when he cracks them open makes it ten times worse. How makes it to the en-suite bathroom before the missile explodes is a wonder, but his knees crash painfully against the tiles as he retches into the toilet. Ugh. Tequila. What was he thinking?

It takes forever coming back up. All liquid. Damn. When was the last time he ate anything? During the small breaks between the agonizing waves of cramps, he barely manages to catch his breath. It's funny how your body always stays this side of killing you. At some point, it registers that his legs are bare against the cold floor. He's only wearing pretty snug trunks. Huh. Someone must have helped him out of his clothes last night, because he usually barely bothers toeing off his shoes before he crashes. Actually, now that he's heaving over the bowl, he's kind of grateful not to have to sweat it in stuff stinking of booze.

When the assaults are over, he spits a few times, dabs his mouth with toilet paper and wipes his eyes, before flushing the toilet. Then he rests his forehead against his arm, weighing the unbearable idea of moving now against the cold seeping in his bones from the cool air and tiles. He wonders what time it is. Judging by the harsh light, it must be around noon. Great. Only half the day left to go. “Happy birthday, mom.” he croaks. He doesn't even have the energy to hate himself when his eyes start stinging again.

“Think you're done?”

“Holy shit!!” Derek flails away from the toilet, his back and elbow hitting a cabinet painfully, and finds Stiles sitting cross legged a few paces away from him. His head is on fire. How long has he been throwing up that Stiles actually sat down to wait it out?! Of course, it's _Stiles_. Who else would it be at this point? Why'd he stay the night, though? Where'd he sleep? Did he? Or did he just watch over Derek to make sure he didn't choke on his own puke? Knowing Stiles, he's pretty sure it's the latter.

Great.

More guilt. More shame.

“You okay?” Stiles asks softly, mindful of the pounding in Derek's head. Derek makes a gargle that sounds like an affirmative. Stiles still doesn't move. “Think you're up for a shower, now?”

Actually, that sounds wonderful. And like way too much work. If only he had the strength to reach the pool. _Drunk orphaned billionaire heir found drowned in pool after party._ Sounds about right. Clichés are classics for a reason.

Stiles is pushing himself up, and Derek stares at the dark circles under the dull golden eyes. He likes them better when Stiles is laughing. It's like the crinkles at the corners light up something behind them and make then _alive_. Then again, why would he be laughing now? Derek feels like hugging Stiles' knees and sobbing when the younger man hands him a glass of water and a good dose of aspirin. He takes it slowly, the both of them silently waiting to see if it stays down.

Somehow, Derek's stomach seems to be able to differentiate poison from medicine and doesn't protest too much. Derek's head, however, gets so painful black spots dance before his eyes when Stiles hauls him up. He grabs a fistful of graphic tee and straggles to the tub, Stiles' iron grip painful and reassuring on his arm. The concept of balance remains somewhat elusive. Throwing up has made him shaky and weak.

He hisses as he sprays his feet with icy water and fights with the dial for a minute. Somehow it seems intent on going from frozen directly to scalding. Eventually, he gets it just this side of too hot and doesn't risk touching it again. Stiles saves his life – probably quite literally – catching him as he titters backwards. Grunting with effort, the younger man deposits him on his ass at the bottom of the tub. Derek slumps against the side, spent. Derek realizes he still has underwear on, well, it's probably best anyway. He feels exposed and pitiful enough. Stiles makes a grab for the handshower that got knocked loose in the confusion and is now spraying the sink and the mat. He redirects the spray to Derek's chest, then slowly up to his face. Derek opens his mouth and lets the water run on his closed lids. He spits a couple of times before he ducks forward and wets his hair. 

Stiles presses the handle of the shower in his hands and orients the appeasing stream towards Derek's chest. Derek stays, docile, too worn out to think or move, as Stiles poor shampoo into his palm and finger combs it in his hair. It quickly forms a lather that Stiles massages into his scalp, starting at the top of the head, then moving to the sides. When he reaches the back and works downward towards the neck, Derek can't keep a moan from slipping past his lips.

“Yeah.” Stiles voice is amused. “It's pretty nice when you're hungover. It's my secret weapon, don't go sharing it with everybody.” Derek makes a sound. “No, really. Scott's already a pain about it, since you can't really do it on yourself and all. You should hear him beg, man. It's not pretty.”

“I can beg pretty.” Derek mumbles. His voice is raw and it makes him realize it's the first thing he's said to Stiles. Somehow, his unedited words embarrass him now. Huh. Guess who's not as completely past caring about what people think as he thought?

Stiles works at his neck and shoulders, and Derek has no problems imagining why Scott would beg. He would beg every day to have this, hungover or not. “I'm sure you can. But you don't have to. Cause I'm awesome and I'm already doing it.” Stiles says eventually.

Derek thinks he might be purring. His head is still throbbing, but it's like it's been quarantined inside his skull, while his scalp now feels all kinds of magestic. Stiles indulges him a while longer, clearly going back for seconds and thirds when it should be over by now. Derek feels something tighten in his chest. Stiles does that to him. Stiles stayed and made sure he survived the night, and he gave him aspirin and is now trying to make him feel like he's not at death's door. What has Derek done to deserve that? He's been a total dick to him. 

The poor loaded little orphan shtick doesn't work after a while. It's stopped working with almost everybody. Stiles isn't here out of sympathy for that, either. He's here because he's a genuinely good person and it makes Derek feel guiltier for being the cause of the chore. Or the chore itself, if you will. Stiles steals the shower from him and rinses out the shampoo, getting the back of Derek's ears properly like his mom used to when he was a kid and he never thinks to do himself. The thought brings on a bittersweet smile.

There's a hint of curiosity in Stiles' eye when he moves around and he sees it, but he doesn't ask, instead he hands Derek the shower gel. “You good?”

Derek catches himself before he nods. He knows what it would do to his headache. Besides, he wants to be honest. And he is far from good.

Stiles rinses his foamy hands under the spray, gives it back, and watches Derek rotate the bottle of soap in his hand. Back. Front. Back. Front. Ba- “You're still alive, Derek.” When he looks up, Stiles' eyes are more alight than they were earlier. Despite his soft, pleading tone, there is something fierce and fiery in there. “Please, try to remember that.” He doesn't know why he does it. He just knows that if he doesn't do something, he's going to start crying. And he can't find anything that would express how he feels. He probably shouldn't even try to delve on how he feels, that's how he got here in the first place. So instead, he leans forward, his shoulder squeezed against the cold tub, and molds his lips to Stiles'. “Dere-...”

“Thank you.” Derek cuts him, resting his forehead against Stiles', eyes closed. That, he knows how to say. He owes Stiles about a thousand of those.

Stiles doesn't jerk away like he almost did from the kiss – Derek didn't quite give him enough time. He knows how to avoid rejection. –, he simply pulls back. A drop of water from Derek's hair is rolling down his forehead, tripping on his eyebrow and running down his temple. Stiles is watching Derek with something strange in his eyes. Like hope, maybe. Like pride. It's unbearable to look at, so instead, Derek flicks open the shower gel and starts on his body. Stiles waits a while, then, coming to the conclusion that Derek isn't going to drown himself or cause of flood if left to his own devices, he pats the edge of the tub. “I'll go make some coffee. We could both use it.” he says. “You know, if I can get to the kitchen.” Derek cringes internally. “If you're good in an hour, we'll need to get some food in you. You look like death, Derek.”

Derek stares at Stiles hand, long gifted fingers a stark contrast with the aggressively white tub. He feels like sleeping, but he knows that if he does, he'll wake up to the same scenario. Stiles' plan is better, it might make him clear headed by tonight. Maybe, if Stiles sticks around, he won't feel so afraid to be so that he has to hide inside a bottle.

Stiles pushes up with a grunt, muffling a yawn of his own. Derek is a supporter of sleepless nights for party or, in the old days, to pack in more hours of study when cutting a midterm short, but Stiles staying up to make sure he doesn't choke is not something he can get behind. 

“If I'm not down in fifteen...” he gets out when Stiles reaches the threshold. “Just leave me here to die.” Sad thing is, he's not really kidding.

“I won't.” Stiles says before disappearing.

Derek stares at the vacant doorway, the scent of citrus shampoo lingering in the air. “I know.”

And he should have, from the start. Should have understood what it meant, that Stiles wouldn't let him give up.

The world is done waiting for him, and Stiles is here to kick his as into catching up with that reality. He has to hold on to what he has left. Family. His memories. And Peter. He should let him see him do better before he dies. Laura. He thinks of how close they were and how alone she must feel now. Because he sucks. What else does he have to hold on to? A future. Before he stopped attending classes, he actually had a pretty decent GPA for a frat president. And Hale Industries. His grandfather and parent's baby. His friends. His brothers.

Being alive. It sounds like a good anchor. He'll hold on to that.

And now he knows Stiles is there to make sure he doesn't lose his grip.

**Author's Note:**

> It seems like I am in a neck massage/neck petting mood these days. Could it be because mine has been stiff for a week? Neck massages sound heavenly right now. Hm.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the fic!


End file.
